


Red Dragon

by goodloser



Series: Quit Stuntin [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Inappropriate Erections, Mental Health Issues, Punishment, Regret, Secret Crush, Self-Hatred, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodloser/pseuds/goodloser
Summary: The Stunticons go to therapy! Motormaster is anxious, Dead End learns something, Wildrider confesses, Breakdown gets help, and Drag Strip is pissed the fuck off. But it actually goes pretty good, all things considering. It might take time, but it feels like things are gonna be alright.
Relationships: Dead End/Motormaster (Transformers)
Series: Quit Stuntin [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924132
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Red Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> lectern is 10000000% a hannibal lecter reference

So, the day had finally come: the day each one of them had been dreading. Between Motormaster’s outward anger and inward mortification, Dead End’s irritation at something so pointless, Breakdown’s inherent anxiety about _what will everyone think, oh Primus, it’s the end for us,_ Drag Strip’s deep humiliation and Wildrider’s — well, Wildrider thought it’d be a load of fun, really; the day had arrived.

It was time for them to see Lectern.

Motormaster worried at his lip as he marched his troop to the psychiatrist’s office. He was trying desperately to reason away the way the whole affair would reflect on him. And why should it? Lectern had already seen Megatron (brave), Starscream (oh _boy),_ the Combaticons, Blitzwing, even _Soundwave_ — regular, high-ranking officers, so how could it be a bad thing now it was _their_ turn, right? Right?

The door to his office was very neat. Extravagant, maybe, for a place in the Con base. It was certainly nicer than the bent-off never-fixed door to Stunticon Headquarters. 

Motormaster took an inaudible gulp and reached to knock. It opened before it.

It was obvious from all experiences that Lectern had once been very old and very noble.

(Usually such a mech would _never_ be allowed into the Decepticon ranks, frankly going against their anti-Functionist manifesto, but like doctors and scientists, psychiatrists were in short supply amongst the lower classes yet dire need amongst the unsound-at-best army.)

His chassis and unidentifiable kibble were laced with intricate patterns; worn, but clearly still well maintained with a nice polish that Motormaster could tell from there was some high-end Polyhexian brand, though there was also an odd tinge of energon considering he wasn’t much for battle. He was mostly grey and brown, with a silver helm; the kind of colours that betrayed a subtle sense of elegance, unlike the Stunticons’ flashy jobs.

“Welcome, friends,” he said.

There was an odd expression on his face that almost seemed to be one of _amusement_ and instantly Motormaster had the urge to uppercut him for laughing at them already. But he held back. Primus knew Megatron would not be happy at him for landing the base’s only psychiatrist in the clinic.

Instead, Motormaster grunted through his teeth and looked away. Wildrider waved a hand that was high yet barely visible over Motormaster’s shoulder. Breakdown was already chewing on his finger in mute terror.

“You may step into the waiting room, and I’ll call you out individually. Then I believe a group session is probably in order, yes?”

As if each Stunticon’s issue wasn’t bad enough by themselves.

Motormaster nodded curtly and followed Lectern into his office. The rest of them took up seats around the room. Wildrider was looking around the room with genuine interest (probably deciding how best to fuck it up, to be honest), while Drag Strip was doing the same with markedly more snobbiness. Dead End pulled out a microfibre cloth to clean off the minute pieces of dust on his form.

The room was well decorated. It was easily enough so to rival the likes of the three in command, but again with that air of elegance. Drag Strip felt a begrudging sense of awe at how he’d managed to keep a hold of so many pre-war artefacts. But no, the room wasn’t _his_ style: okay, it was nicer than the medbay, but _his_ quarters were far more stylish and pretty; perfect for the talented racecar he was.

Wildrider pulled a rock from somewhere (what…? Did he just keep rocks in his subspace?) and pouted in concentration. He pinged it off an oxidasian statue. It rolled on its stand, but didn’t fall.

“Damn.”

Drag Strip cuffed him upside the head. “What the frag do you think _you’re_ doing!”

“I’m bored.” He kicked his legs on his seat. He was too tall to actually do that, and his feet made a grating noise against the floor as he did so.

Breakdown’s eyed the door as if Lectern knew somehow. “Wildrider, please don’t, we don’t want to get in more trouble than we have.”

“We’re not in trouble,” Dead End said firmly. “It’s a medical exercise.”

“But medical for what? Our — our glitches! Medicalling our glitches of us!”

“Not a word. And how is that possibly a bad thing.” 

“I don’t — what if it involves torturing us until we change, or making us take weird chemicals, or throwing us in a Pit to fight it out, or—”

Drag Strip perked up. “Hold up. So this is a competition?” Oh yes. Therapy was something he was going to _win_ at, unlike these five other losers.

“Psychotherapy is a futile medical practice used to train out processor glitches, and it typically involves talking, as if _that_ could do anything to cure,” Dead End gestured at the rest of them, “all of _this.”_

“I can still do that. I can talk. I have charisma for miles.”

“It isn’t —” he had to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, already nearing the end of his tether with this, “it’s not a competition, Strip. It’s more like hammering a dent out, although instead the dents are in our processors.”

“So they really are going to poke around inside my processor?! Oh Primus. I can’t do this. I’m going offline. I’m going to expel. Wake me up when it’s over.” Breakdown suddenly stiffened. “Oh Primus. What if they put a — a chit inside us like the Combaticons, and we _have_ to act right or else it hurts us like it does them or whatever, and —”

“If Motormaster hears you comparing us to those traitors ever again he’s going to be the one rearranging your helm. If any of this _worked_ and Lectern actually knew what he was _doing_ he could get Motormaster to stop hitting us.”

“So he _is_ fitting us with chits!!”

“Chits.”

“I want chips.” Wildrider pulled out another rock and Drag Strip smacked it out of his hand. “Oh. I mean energon chips.”

“Will you quit it? You’re ruining my image,” Drag Strip yelled. In response, Wildrider poked the racing strip down his arm to scrape it off, and Drag Strip growled.

“No one is even looking, Strip.”

“I have to look good for Lectern. How else am I going to get a good score?”

“These aren’t scored, Strip.”

Wildrider pulled out a rock the size of a cyphersoftball and aimed it, one tongue stuck out in concentration. Drag Strip straight up slapped him across the face.

Dead End relented and put his helm in his hands. He couldn’t deal with any of this right now. What a waste of time it was, when just hours before he was peacefully reading a datapad and eating sweets Wildrider had nabbed off one of the Constructicons. To distract himself (and also to satisfy his curiosity), he reached out across the gestalt link to check on how Motormaster was doing, and was met with growing fury and an anxiety that was downright amusing as much as it was worrying. When did their tyrant leader ever let such an emotion out across the bond?

* * *

“So.” Lectern leant forward on his desk, still throwing out a gentle off-kilter smile that could easily be a smirk. “Your reputation precedes you, Motormaster.”

Motormaster grunted.

“Tell me, how have you been feeling these days? What’s been your stressors?”

Although he still kept a hard line of a mouth and a purposeful glare, there was definitely a flicker of uncertainty that flashes through his optics. What kind of… what kind of question…? How was he supposed to answer something like that? There was uncomfortable silence as Lectern looked him over as if he was a mere puzzle to be solved. 

“My friend, I’m sure it goes without saying that Lord Megatron is expecting some improvement from these sessions. Unfortunately, that will require a little response from your part. Are you uncomfortable? We can talk about something else if you wish.”

“What… like what?” Not that he was uncomfortable. No, he would never admit such a weakness, especially against such a bot he could easily crack over his knee and throw into the rubble.

“Whatever you’d like. How about your fellow Stunticons? It is easier to talk about other people, after all.”

“Fine,” he grunted. His gaze drifted to Lectern’s chest as he tried to think of what to say.

He splurted out, “I hate Drag Strip.”

“Yes. As I understand, he’s quite the character. But what are _your_ thoughts on him?”

“He’s — stupid slagger never pays attention, never obeys, thinks he’s all that, almost as bad as Wildrider, or maybe worse ‘cuz at least I can blame Wildrider on him being _crazy_ instead of just plain _obnoxious,_ and no matter how much I beat it out of him he won’t listen or change ever. And,” Motormaster swiped his forehead, “Fraggit. It’s the same with Breakdown. Or Dead End. I don’t even know who’s worse anymore.” Lectern’s optics sparkled like he’d just heard a funny joke, and his fingers gripped dents into the desk.

“What of Breakdown?”

“He’s so damned paranoid. I can guarantee you he’s back there right now leakin’ oil all over the place at the thought of you. He’s been naggin’ us about it for _weeks,_ can never get any damned peace around here. And don’t go thinkin’ Dead End is any better.” He jabbed a thumb at Lectern in anger. “If all the others are doin’ too much, he does too _little._ He’d rather sit down and polish all day than get out there and do any real work. And don’t get me started on what he does for morale. You’ll see when he gets here. You’ll see.”

Lectern tented his hands. “No, I’m sure I will, but please tell me, what _does_ he do for morale?”

This only incensed Motormaster. “He makes Breakdown feel worse without a care in the scrapheap world! All he goes on about it how the stupid world is going to end and we’re all dyin’ one day, like I don’t know that, but what’s the point of _saying_ it? Lord Megatron ain’t wanna hear that scrap.”

“Do you care so highly what Lord Megatron wants to hear?”

“Yeah. Sure. Don’t you?”

“Quite.” Again, Lectern was unnervingly quiet. “And you’re embarrassed by your team. You want them to be Lord Megatron’s perfect, elite combiner team.”

“Yeah, _obviously,_ I mean they _are_ a load of embarrassments to the rest of the army. Don’t you hear what those stupid Coneheads say about us? Thinkin’ I don’t hear ‘em…”

“So you discipline them to make them stand in line.”

Motormaster nodded.

“But they don’t, and it only makes you angrier, and the cycle will thusly repeat itself.”

He nodded again, although more uncertainly this time. He guessed… yeah, it was a kind of cycle. 

Lectern held his hand to his chin in a coy gesture. Again, his eyes laughed. “Tell me, Motormaster. Have you ever attempted to praise them when they’re correct, rather than discipline them when they’re wrong?”

Motormaster eyed him with suspicion. “What? No. Why would I do that?”

“Do you not believe it might be a more effective tool for getting what you’d like?”

“No. It wouldn’t.”

“Try thinking of it from your own perspective. Would you rather Lord Megatron disciplined you for failing a mission? Or wouldn’t you rather he praised you for doing well? Do you not enjoy that giddy feeling of success and power it gives you?”

“I wouldn’t,” he gruffed quickly. Things like — like ‘giddy’ feelings were for weaklings.”

“Mm.” He got the creeping feeling at the back of his neck cables that Lectern could tell he was… No, he wasn’t lying. That was absurd. “Very well. But we will address this later in the group session. One last thing—” Lectern pulled out a steelpaper and a scribe. “I’d like you to draw something on here. Anything at all you’d like.”

Motormaster narrowed his eyes. “No. What? I ain’t a sparkling.”

“I promise you, it will be a useful tool for my treatment of you and your team.”

He was still glaring at it. But he slowly picked up the scribe and chewed on the end of it in thought. Just… _anything?_ Like what? What did he even _want_ to draw.

When he left the session to call in the next bot, Lectern was looking at the drawing with amusement: a crude sketch of Motormaster stabbing Optimus Prime while Megatron laughed off to the side.

* * *

“So what was it like? Did you win?” Drag Strip asked excitedly.

At the same time, Breakdown asked, “What was it like? Did he… y’know…?”

‘Y’know’ what? What the hell? At first, Motormaster raised a shaking fist to punch the both of them for being annoying so quick already, but then he lowered it and cursed to himself. He was still angry, but also as drained as if he’d just driven a hundred laps around the desert. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. He took a seat opposite them and it creaked underneath his weight. It was next to the statue Wildrider had been trying to knock off, and he eyed its scuff marks with suspicion. He pointed at them. “Was that always like that?”

Wildrider laughed, “No.”

“I’m going to smack you after this. Quit it.” Motormaster wiped his chin, unsure how to proceed. “I don’t… think I won? Or lost, really. It ain’t like that. It was just a load of talking about whatever.”

“H-huh?” Breakdown tilted his head. “Like what?”

“How much I hate you lot.”

He flinched.

Wildrider had gotten bored of his first game, and got up to inspect one of the paintings (mostly to see if he could pry them off the wall and turn them upside down or something). Motormaster reached out a massive fist to grab him by the shoulder and throw him onto the energon table.

* * *

**Krangsh.**

Dead End didn’t stir. “That will be Motormaster, although I’m sure you know that already.”

“Yes, quite,” Lectern nodded imperceptibly as he rearranged things on his desk and pulled out a datapad. He hadn’t used it with Motormaster (the mech was clearly easily spooked, and he’d wanted him as relaxed as possible). “Well, Dead End. What would you like to speak about?”

“Nothing,” Dead End said immediately. “This whole thing is pointless.”

“Why do you believe that?”

“You really think you can cure Breakdown’s paranoia or Wildrider’s _Wildriderness_ by talking to them? And even if you could, why? It’s not like it’ll matter in the end of it all.” He continued when Lectern gestured for him to do so, although he felt very silly doing it. “Even if we get _cured_ and go on to live perfect lives, and even if we become amazing warriors and kill Prime and the Decepticons win, so _what?”_

“So what.”

“We’ll die anyway, at some point. Maybe even doing it. The Empire will crumble, as all great empires have and will. Cybertron will break apart. The Sun will die and collapse. Life will end at some point. The universe will die a heat death, and there’ll be nothing, and then its weight will collapse it into a singularity, and there’ll be nothing like nothing else. That’s it.”

“Very depressing beliefs, you have there.”

He shrugged. “It’s not a belief if it’s true.”

“Then, if I may ask, although please feel no pressure to respond, why haven’t you merely ended it all already?”

He shrugged again, and fixed him with a pointed stare. He’d been speaking honestly anyway, but particularly so now. “I ask myself that every day.”

Lectern hmmed, and made some notes. Dead End tapped his feet with impatience — when was this pointless exercise going to be over? Finally, Lectern nodded and looked at him again. “So what else?”

“What else what.”

“What else would you like to speak about?”

“Nothing. I already told you.”

“Not even your teammates?”

“I hate Motormaster. Breakdown is fine, I guess. Wildrider is… Wildrider. A handful. Everything _he_ does is _especially_ useless. Drag Strip is annoying.”

“Why do you hate Motormaster?”

“What do you mean _why?”_ and now there was a flash of anger in Dead End’s voice and visor. He leant forward. “He beats on us all the time. He cares so much about nothing that matters. He’s — he’s _abusive._ You know what he did last week? Drag Strip spilt their rations, so Motormaster pushed him down and made him lick it up off the floor. In the middle of the canteen.” There was a definite note of disgust to his voice.

“I must say I do not quite understand why that bothers you as much as it does.”

He _bristled,_ and would’ve reached forward to grab Lectern’s collar if the desk wasn’t in the way. Instead, he slammed his fist on the desk and leant forward. “You’re crazier than Wildrider. Do you know how that _feels?_ Being humiliated in front of everyone, day in and day out. Why don’t _you_ get on the floor and lick it up if you like it so much.”

Lectern shook his head, and simply said, “I would not appreciate that, no, but if you’re going to die anyway, why is humiliation and beating something to be afraid of?”

Dead End deflated visibly. He hadn’t even realised his vents had cranked up, but now they’d stilled audibly.

He stared at the desk, suddenly finding Lectern’s optics far too bright. In a small, pathetic voice, he muttered, “It. Hurts.”

“Do you not want it to hurt? To feel bad?”

“I… doesn’t everyone?”

“Of course. But not everyone has the same nihilistic beliefs you do, so I admit I am finding quite a logical error in what is going on in that processor of yours.”

Dead End fidgeted; pushing his thumbs on top of each other over and over. Of course, he’d thought about things like this before, but without finding a good answer to it it’d annoyed him and so he’d just left it and returned to his own devices. It was a while before he spoke again, and it was to quietly admit that, well, he didn’t really know the answer to a statement like that and its unspoken question.

While typing, Lectern said, “Forgive me for the sudden apparent change of subject, but I can’t help but notice you are quite one, to, well, _primp_ yourself.”

“So?” Dead End huffed. He suddenly felt very defensive and naked. Other people getting on his case about it was usually just annoying or embarrassing, but here, he felt — he felt weird. He felt under a microscope.

“Why? Again, in regards to your philosophies.”

Again he fidgeted, feeling stupid for admitting such a thing. “I just. Just like looking nice, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Lectern said, and now his face was wrinkled in a way that made it look like he was laughing _at_ him and he hated it. “I do too, myself. It’s not a bad thing to want for, you know.”

Dead End just said nothing and stared anywhere but at his face.

Lectern continued, “Here’s what I believe, Dead End, and apologies if you find myself a little impolite about it. I think you are a very intelligent mech. You hold paradoxically strong beliefs. Despite what you or others might believe, you’re a person with hobbies and desires. However, I find you lack a little perspective — a conclusion to all of this. Existentialists such as yourself have hidden fears of engaging with the world, or even feeling pleasure, but you shouldn’t. Nihilism is no less valid than any other branch of philosophy, after all. Consider this:

There is no justification to live, but no justification to not live, either. (Said Crossbus). You will die one day, and so will everything else, and so all actions have no meaning or consequence, and so you can do all that you will.”

Dead End just muttered something about hating hedonism, but didn’t make any comment otherwise. He was staring at the corner of the room..

“One last thing, Dead End,” and Lectern pulled out the same materials he had earlier. “Please feel free to draw on this anything you’d like to. Anything at all.”

Dead End quickly scribbled down a nothing (just a collection of lines going nowhere in particular) and stormed out.

Lectern smiled.

* * *

“How do you feel?” Breakdown worried at Dead End when he came back. “Did he hurt you?”

Dead End felt angry. Conflicted. Stupid, humiliated even. And more hopeless than ever before. But he lied, and said “he’s annoying”, and that much was as obvious over the gestalt bond if anything else.

Motormaster fixed him with A Look. “You ain’t say anything about me, did you?”

“Just that I hate you. Which you know already.”

He growled, cursed, and looked away. “If any of you two say something, you know what’s comin’ to you.”

Breakdown squawked and dipped his head, trying to look as shrinking as possible.

Drag Strip grumbled under his breath and kicked the table (which now had a massive Wildrider-shaped dent on it). “First I was annoyed, but then I got excited, but now I’m annoyed again.”

“I take it you’ve heard why,” Dead End said flatly in Motormaster’s direction.

“He’s a slaggin’ idiot,” Motormaster replied. And then he grinned. “And I told Lectern that, too, so get excited for _that.”_

Drag Strip stood up with a clenched fist. “What?! What did _you_ say, End?”

“Annoying. You know that already, too.”

“I’m —” He rounded on Breakdown now. “You better tell him the truth, okay?”

“That was the truth.”

“No it wasn’t! What about my daring feats, my prowess on the roads? My _speeds?”_

Motormaster rolled his optics. He wanted to make some kind of retort, but wasn’t quite sure what could be fitting or biting enough here.

“It’s a lot of waste, anyway,” Dead End said. “Here, I can do it with ease: Drag Strip, you’re clearly the most insecure Con on base, but think you can cover it up with flash when any two-byte afthole can tell the truth. Breakdown, you’re the opposite. Probably quite high-and-mighty, although you’d rather no one knew that, but that’s why you’re so scared of everything anyway. You don’t want to get hurt. Or maybe you’re just a scaredy-feliniform, who knows. Wildrider is legitimately the worst out of all of us. Impulsive. Idiotic. And Motormaster.” His field shimmered with a nasty grin of his own. “You’re desperate for approval.”

“Why —” Motormaster jumped up and strode over to him. His feet made purposeful rumbles to the ground. Breakdown squeaked again and ran over to Drag Strip’s seat to hide behind him, who just gaped in both indignation and fear. 

Motormaster’s leg came up to kick down on Dead End’s backstruts to bend him in half onto his lap. He flexed a fist, aching to do _something_ to hurt him but not sure what’d hurt _enough._ His EM field rippled with as much shame as it did anger. “You. Take. That. Back.” 

“You know I’m right,” came the response muffled by Dead End’s legs.

Motormaster grabbed his facemask and squeezed until it dented so hard it _cracked._ He leant in close, to Dead End’s audial, and hissed. His voice was as dark and foreboding as a bottomless pit. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but it’ll be _something_ you. _Won’t. Like._ I’m going to strangle you until you pass out, over and over, and then I’m going to force-feed you until you purge and you ain’t gonna know which one will feel worse.”

Dead End shuddered minutely.

* * *

Wildrider opted not to sit. Instead, he bounced with excitement on the balls of his feet. His helm darted around Lectern’s office to drink in every detail. Lectern raised an eyebrow, and leant back.

“Greetings, Wildrider.”

“Hi. Ooh, what’s that?” Wildrider leapt forward (scooting halfway across the desk) and grabbed the datapad right out of Lectern’s hands. He turned it upside down, this way and that, and pouted. “Aw. It’s empty.”

“May I have that back?”

He tossed it to him and awaited instructions.

“Thank you. Well then, let’s begin. Wildrider, is there anything you’d like to talk about? Anything at all.”

He said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you ever hate it when things get too quiet?”

Lectern shook his head. “In fact, I rather enjoy the peace.”

“Well I do. I get this sense, right? It’s like everything’s all gonna go wrong. Like doom. Like how End feels. Like that’s a black hand gripping up in my spark.” Wildrider was moving his hands as if he could shape out the feeling. “Plus it makes the voices louder, and I don’t really like that.”

“What do the voices say, my friend?”

“Oh. lotsa stuff. Usually it’s real normal, like conversations. Heck, sometimes Megsy talks to me. Sometimes they tell jokes and stuff, or sometimes they just talk about what’s going on. Like in the waiting room, Brake-Neck—”

“Brake-Neck?”

“Yeah. That’s what the one with a high voice is called. Like this. He was saying to throw stuff at your statue until it fell over and broke.”

“Why ever would he do that?” Lectern asked, although he didn’t sound miffed in the slightest.

“Iunno. I wanted to see what happened. Like, if you got mad or nothing? But I think he _wanted_ to make you mad, because he usually likes that.”

“Why do you think he likes that?”

Wildrider shrugs. “He’s a funny guy. And the other big guy I guess is Narrator. He doesn’t really have a name, but I call him that, and he just says everything that’s going on right now. He sounds kinda like Dead End. Like, right now, he’s sayin’ something like ‘Wildrider bounced with excitement on the balls of his feet. His hands waved animatedly, trying to explain to Lectern what was going on in his head.’ Stuff like that.”

“I see.”

“Whatcha writing?”

“Merely taking notes,” Lectern answered. He paused before he continued. “Do these voices ever tell you to do bad things? Excuse me, worse things than the mischief Brake-Neck might like to get up to.”

“That’s when it’s quiet, see, that’s when they get worse so I don’t like when it gets quiet. There’s this one that sounds like Motormaster, sometimes he, well, actually they don’t tell me to do anything. They just talk to me. But the Motormaster Voice says I’m worthless and stupid and everyone hates me, especially my friends. Then there’s who I guess I call Alarm, and he just says in a really deep voice, _enemies coming. Autobots coming. Kill you. Enemies nearby._ Stuff like that. I ‘on’t like it, it’s scary.”

“How interesting.” If it was anyone else, they might be angry about hearing that, but Wildrider was actually pretty glad Lectern didn’t seem weirded out about it. Even if he knew it really was weird. “Of course, you don’t like the latter voices, but what of the former? Would you like them to go away?”

“I bet Motors want them to go away. I don’t really care though. They don’t do anything, except distract me in battle or on the round but that doesn’t matter much.”

“And tell me, do you have any strange beliefs?”

“Huh?” Wildrider tilted his head. “What’s strange?”

“Common ones may include that someone is controlling your actions, that you have died or do not exist, that you are not being followed. There have even been cases of a sort of Prime’s Complex where fellows believe they are to be the next Prime and Matrix-Bearer. The list can go on.”

“Okay, so, there was a time a while back when I thought I _was_ Brake-Neck. And everyone kept saying I wasn’t. Especially Motormaster, he hit me every time I forgot and didn’t say anything then he was talking to Wildrider. But I didn’t _feel_ like Wildrider. I know how Wildrider feels. He feels all like… chaos and fire and stuff. I didn’t feel like that. I felt, sort of, like soot and snakes and embers. Which sounds the same, but it wasn’t. I’m all, energy? And Brake-Neck feels like… tired. And annoyed. I don’t really get annoyed at things. And the other one I thought was that Motormaster was speaking in my mind, but not like the Motormaster Voice? More like… I guess he was beaming his thoughts into my mind. He wasn’t saying stuff that Motors would say, it was secret things like about loving _Lord Megatron_ or wanting to frag End or getting on the road in a truck mode. But Motormaster never acted like he was doing it on purpose, so I guess it wasn’t. Also, no one else was? I asked the others once and they asked what the frag I was talking about.”

More typing. “Do you have any current beliefs?”

“Not really. I think?”

Lectern murmured, “Yes, of course. Did these beliefs distress you in any way?”

“They were annoying,” Wildrider said with distaste. “I like being Wildrider and I don’t like Motormaster hitting me and I don’t want his weird thoughts in my head anyway.”

“Wildrider, I believe you suffer from psychosis.”

“Whassat?”

“Well, it’s precisely what you have just described to me, my friend. I will get in contact with Mixmaster to produce an antipsychotic medication for you. We will adjust the dosage to your liking. Hopefully it will eliminate some of your more harmful symptoms.

Now, may I ask your others on the other Stunticons?”

Wildrider frowned; an unnatural look on his face. “Motors isn’t the worst guy ever, but I hate when he hits me ‘cuz I don’t like getting hurt or nothing. And, umm… Drag Strip is funny. So is Dead End. I kinda worry about Breakdown, to be honest, but I dunno what to say to make him feel better, plus sometimes he’s funny anyways.”

“Thank you, Wildrider. Very informative.”

After that, Wildrider drew a neat little picture of what he knew best — the Stunticons, with him in the centre, and Brake-Neck off to the corner.

* * *

Once Breakdown had left, Motormaster grabbed Wildrider by his shoulders. “What did you say to him. About me.”

Before answering, Wildrider glanced at Dead End rubbing the back of his neck, his exposed wiring visible between cracked dents. Whoa, what happened here? “Well, I told him about the Motormaster Voice, and how one time you were putting your thoughts in my head.”

Motormaster was preparing to raise a fist, but instead he squinted in utter confusion. “Wha… what the frag is that?”

“When it gets real quiet I can hear your voice speaking to me and plus that there was a time when your thoughts were in my head, it wasn’t a voice or anything it was _your_ thoughts. That stuff.”

Motormaster sighed and dropped him. He returned to manspread in his seat. Wildrider really was the craziest of the lot of them. Drag Strip was eyeing him with a raised brow, obviously thinking the same thing. Motormaster caught it, and decided he had nothing better to do than needle him. “So you’re last.”

“S… saving the best for last. Obviously.”

Motormaster rolled his optics. 

* * *

“Sorry, um, could you turn around. I don’t like people… looking at me.”

“Of course, my friend. Anything to make you comfortable.” And Lectern did turn his chair around so Breakdown was free to stair at its dark metal black. “Where would you like to begin? We can talk about anything you’d like. Stresses, feelings, relationships.”

Relationships. Breakdown fidgeted as he remembered Motormaster’s righteous fury minutes ago. But he didn’t want to talk about that, so he lamely said, “Nervous. I feel nervous.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t — I don’t want you to do anything weird to me, like hurt me, or… I don’t know. I’ve never done this before, so it’s scary.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of, Breakdown. This is a safe space for you. I am not going to hurt you.”

That was… a _little_ reassuring, at least. Breakdown allowed his shoulders to relax slightly, although his optics were still darting around the room for any sign of traps or other weirdness. There was nothing save for a neat desk with a few objects on it, which he assumed was for him. He picked up a cube with a switch on it and began clicking it incessantly.

“I have heard numerous times that you are a very paranoid person, Breakdown.”

Of _course_ Lectern had, but it still hurt to hear it. “I — yeah, I mean. I guess. It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like no one else _notices_ things.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Traps. Little noises. And when people stare at you and they get that _look_ in their optics like they’d want nothing better than to just — to strangle you until you cry. Even if they like you, or they’re nice to you, there’s always that look in their eyes that says they’re better off without you. And well — when things go wrong, it’s other people’s faults for not paying attention, and it’s my fault because I missed the signs or I missed something.”

Of course, it didn’t take a genius to diagnose Breakdown. Merely a copy of the _Manual of Psychiatric Disorders._ “I believe you are suffering from a paranoid delusion, Breakdown.”

“Well. Yeah. That’s pretty obvious.”

“We could put you on a medication regime —”

“No!” Breakdown thrust his hands out in front of him in a stop sign, even though it was much more reflexive than useful because Lectern couldn’t even see him. “No, I don’t want to take any weird medicine, I don’t _want_ to not be like this, don’t you see? I don’t want that. I _need_ to be vigilant, constantly.” His clicking speed increased.

“Do these thoughts not frighten you, Breakdown? A medication would help to calm you down and improve your mood.”

“I don’t want it. They’re scary but that’s because they’re _true._ I don’t want to go to not knowing. Something bad is going to happen.”

“I understand. Then, we could try a simple talking therapy. I could teach you some techniques to manage your fears. You would still be alert, but you would be able to cope with it and stay calmer in stressful situations.”

He nodded frantically. “Okay, okay. That sounds good.”

“We can begin with a simple one. Whenever you feel panicked, imagine my voice instructing you to vent. Invent through a smaller vent to a count of four, count to seven, and then exvent to eight.”

“That sounds. Scary. That sounds like I’m not going to get another oxidise to my engine. Oxygen.”

“You may adjust the numbers to what makes you comfortable if you wish. The important thing is to invent deeply and exvent deeply.”

Breakdown tried it: vent in, count until he felt worried he was going to snuff out his cylinders (he made it to four as well), vent out. He repeated the motion a couple times with enough concentration that when he stopped, he’d realised he was clenching one fist and stopped clicking the other. But he did feel a little better; a little more in control of things. “Okay. I think that helped a bit.”

“Excellent work, Breakdown.”

It felt really weird to be praised at all, let alone by someone who wasn’t a teammate or a higher up (though he guessed Lectern was), but also kind of nice.

“Would you like to speak about your teammates?”

“Um… what do you want me to say?”

“Anything that comes to mind.”

He wasn’t really sure what to say — where to start, really, because he had many thoughts about all of them. “Earlier,” he started slowly, “while you were talking to Wildrider, M… Motormaster beat Dead End.”

“Oh. I would rather not have that kind of thing in my waiting room.”

“Yeah, but… well, you’ve talked to him, so. Dead End was being uppingly. And the boss cracked his face and everything, and said he was gonna hurt him real bad.”

“I see.” There was a pause, and Breakdown got the distinct feeling he was making some kind of thinking gesture. He could easily picture Lectern rubbing his chin. “And that frightened you?”

“Of course!” he blurted out. “I don’t want Dead End to get hurt, even if he was being extremely bad, I don’t. I don’t know. It’s not fair. He shouldn’t say things to rye him up, but Motormaster shouldn’t hurt him either.”

“I quite agree, and I have addressed this with him. In the group session I hope I will be able to ease his mind a little. Motormaster has a very short temper — he feels all emotions quite strongly, in fact — so I will also give him some exercises to help him control it, like I have with you.”

It felt extremely disconcerting that he and Motormaster would be using the same techniques or whatever to calm down, but whatever, if it helped then good. At least it felt a bit better to talk about it, instead of keeping it all inside him since the others tended not to understand him. “I like Dead End, I really do — except when he says things to hurt me on purpose, actually — but he’s so. He doesn’t watch himself enough. He likes backpack too much. Backtalk. He thinks he’s so funny. So does Wildrider, but at least he _is,_ even though he’s even more troublemaking and usually us lot get dragged into it. And I like Drag Strip too, mostly, but his attitude is really annoying but it gets me down too, like maybe I’m just as worthless as he says I am. But I’m not! I hope.”

“Thank you very much Breakdown, that’s extremely helpful. I’m going to turn around briefly to pass you a paper and pen. Feel free to draw whatever you would wish to.”

Breakdown stared helplessly at it for clicks. What the bit? What was he supposed to do? Eventually he just settled for drawing himself with his gun, because he always felt a bit more safe when he had it in hand.

* * *

Breakdown gave the room a nervous once-over when he came back. Motormaster was leaning on his seat, his arms folds grumpily. He gave Breakdown a brief nod of acknowledgement, but there was a glint to it that said he ‘trusted’ him to not have said anything degrading. Dead End had his arms folded too, his head lolling back as if there wasn’t a care in the world, but his fans were running audibly high and Breakdown winced when he saw his mask. Wildrider was lounging on the seat; spread across where Drag Strip had been. He rolled around on the spot.

“How’d it go, Breaky?”

“Not… Not as bad as I thought. He didn’t do anything weird to me. He even gave me this.” Breakdown held up his cube and clicked it.

Motormaster glared daggers at him. He looked like he wanted to grab it and stuff it down his throat, but because _Lectern_ had given it he refrained from doing so, fearing a word with Megatron. “Don’t do that.”

“Y-yessir.” At least the cube had a side with a dip in it he could run his thumb over, which felt nice.

“Mine was so funny. I got to tell him about everything, which was nice.”

“Yeah, same.”

“He said I have… psychosis? I think that’s what he said.”

“Yeah, he said I have a paranoid deluding.”

“Delusion.”

“What the scrap are either of those things?” Motormaster grunted.

“That’s what I have!” And Wildrider began counting off his fingers. “Hearing voices, weird beliefs. I got two of those.”

Breakdown didn’t answer, since he thought, well, it was pretty obvious to Motormaster what his problem was, anyway.

* * *

Drag Strip hadn’t sat down yet. Instead he slammed his hand down on Lectern’s desk. “And _why_ am I last?”

Lectern tilted his head and smirked. Drag Strip didn’t like that. “No particular reason. I merely thought the others had issues a tad graver than yours.”

That settled him a little. Yes, of course, how could he have overseen that _Wildrider_ was crazier than he was. He settled into the seat with a grumble and eyed Lectern’s datapad with suspicion.

“Ah, this is for taking notes. My apologies, would you prefer if I put it away?”

“No,” Drag Strip said hotly. Of course a paranoid freak like Breakdown would hate seeing it, but he wasn’t like that.

“Let us begin, shall we? What would you like to talk about? Anything is fine.”

He threw up his hands. “Sheesh. Where do I even begin? I’m the only sane person on this half-screwed lightbulb team. And the best. I don’t know why I’m even on it. The others are _lucky_ to have me, but no one ever says anything about it. In fact, they argue with me all the time about it!”

“It is a little rude to proclaim yourself better than others, isn’t it?”

“Yeah but. Tch. Whatever. That’s the Decepticon way, so.”. He drummed his fingers on the desk with a scowl. “I don’t know who’s worse about it. Dead End, who never gets off my case about _anything,_ or Motormaster. All _he_ does is knock me around and tell me shutup. Like he thinks he’s better than me. Stupid idiot.”

“Why do you think they do that, Drag Strip?”

“Jealousy or idiocy. He thinks he doesn’t act like it, but he thinks he’s so prissy and pompous. Stupid bitch. He doesn’t know he’s just depressing and everyone can’t stand it every time he opens his mouth.”

Oh, Drag Strip. Oh dear.

“Meanwhile, Motormaster is torqued off he can’t get Megatron’s spike down his inlet fast enough. He _knows_ Megatron will recognise me one day, once he’s done staring after Soundwave or whoever. And of course a big lugnut like that only knows how to use his fists to settle anything. Too stupid for an _intellectual debate.”_

“And you believe you are.”

He pouted and twisted his head to the side. “Well, smarter than he is, but I’d rather settle things through a race. I’m a racecar. That’s my specialty.”

“Yes, I have heard you are very fast on the road.” Lectern glanced at his datapad. “What are your thoughts on Wildrider and Breakdown?”

“Wildrider’s a fun guy, when he’s not being a crazy afthead. I worry about that guy sometimes. He is _not_ okay. Same with Breakdown. Whatever comes up is what we can deal with so I dunno why he’s so jumpy all the time. It’s like, what is his _damage?_ I guess that’s what it’s like when you’re not as great as I am.”

“I see.” Tap tap tap.

“Drag Strip, I believe you suffer from Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”

Drag Strip’s vents suddenly felt bizarrely cold.

He jumped up and pointed at Lectern as his face heated up despite this. “You take that back. There’s nothing wrong with me. What? What even is that.”

“Narcissistic Personality Disorder,” Lectern continued, “includes features of an exaggerated sense of importance and ability, entitlement and preoccupation with success, poor empathy, and feelings of low self worth.”

“You take that back _right now.”_ And now Drag Strip was fumingly wishing he was as big as Motormaster, who could throw around his weight as much as he wanted with no regard for the consequences. If he was that heavy, _no_ one would mess with him. He was the smallest because he was the lightest, and no less deadly, but — damnit, fraggit, damn it all! “I am _not_ insecure. That’s insane. Nor do I have an exaggerated — ability or whatever.”

“So you do not feel extremely bothered when people deny it?”

He slammed his hand on the table and then gestured it back in a sweeping motion as he shouted. “I feel _angry_ because it’s _true!_ It’s like someone trying to convince you the sky isn’t blue or Megatron isn’t leader — you’d look at them like they’re a Primus-damned idiot or straight up crazy!”

Lectern tutted. “I am not reversing my decision, you know.”

“Then I’m taking it higher. Hook, or, or, Megatron, or —”

“I am the head authority on psychiatric decisions on this base, you know. If you’d like, you could contact another psychiatrist like Rung, an Autobot, and Froid, who is currently nonaffiliated, though I believe he wouldn’t disagree with me on this matter.”

“And I _will_ do. Just you wait.” Drag Strip turned to storm out just like Dead End did.

“Wait.”

He stopped. He looked over his shoulder. The anger was clear on his face.

“First of all, there is no need to leave. I am calling the others in. And this is a required session, to be clear. Second of all, I’d like you to draw on this piece of paper and—”

“Here’s what I think of your stupid little required session.” Drag Strip ripped up the paper, and then made to brew angrily in the farthest seat from him. He muttered a string of curses and complaints under his breath.

* * *

“No wonder you two liked him,” Drag Strip yelled at Wildrider and Breakdown as he gestured at them. “He’s just as crazy as you are. Takes one to know one, am I right?”

Motormaster pinched the bridge of his nose as Breakdown shrank down in his seat guilty. “Shut. Up. Stop shouting.”

Drag Strip looked to the wall, muttering again.

Dead End felt extremely out in the open being visibly damaged in between then and now.

Wildrider was lounging in his chair and playing with an empty minicube of energon until Motormaster reached over, crushed it in his hand, and threw it at his head.

“Drag Strip here has Narcissistic Personality Disorder, my friend,” Lectern said as he tipped his head at Motormaster. “He wishes to contest it. However, I am firm in my decision, and wish to pursue a talking therapy regime designed to teach him a little self-respect for others.”

Motormaster just grunted in acknowledgement, although he flashed Drag Strip a dark look as he did so.

“Alright. Does anyone here have anything they’d like to say?”

The electrocrickets were audible.

“That’s quite fine. I will begin.” Lectern gestured at Motormaster again. “Motormaster, please say something nice about each member of the group.”

Motormaster froze. “What?”

“They will respond positively to encouragement, I can assure you.”

Breakdown stared at Motormaster with wide eyes.

Motormaster mumbled something like _can’t believe I’m doin’ this_ and looked at Dead End, who was to his right. “You. You’re. Smart. Pretty.”

Dead End raised an eyebrow ridge above his visor.

“That’s an excellent start, Motormaster, but I believe we can do more specific than that. What have they done in the past week that was noteworthy?”

Slagged him off, for a start, but Motormaster thumbed his jaw anyway, trying to think of something good to say. Being nice really didn’t come to him naturally. “You’re… You always keep the quarters clean. Thanks. ‘S nice.”

Dead End shrugged. “I don’t like dirty places. It’s bad for my _pretty_ paint.” He had no idea how to feel about the compliment. It didn’t make him happy, that would be absurd, just… just noticed.

Motormaster scowled, but leant ahead so he could see Breakdown anyway, who shrunk under his gaze. “You. You’re always keeping everythin’ working. Thanks for fixin’ the TV.”

Breakdown gave a small nod. He was equally as conflicted as Dead End felt about it.

“And you.” Motormaster slapped Wildrider’s head in a weird heavy pat. “Good job running those stupid minibots off the road last battle. They’re too fast for me to get at, but not you.”

Wildrider beamed and leant into the touch.

“Drag Strip.” Motormaster sighed. Drag Strip tensed. “I like that you’re always ahead of the pack. You get on the scene fast, you get a drop on those scrapheaps. Good job being fast.”

Drag Strip just tutted and turned his nose up. Well, _duh._ That was so obvious it didn’t even need to be said in the first place.

Lectern nodded. “Well done Motormaster.”

Motormaster just mumbled, “Whatever,” and stared at the ground like he could burn a hole through it if he tried hard enough.

“Now, Breakdown, please speak to the others. Tell something about them that bothers you, that you’d like them to improve on.”

Breakdown jumped at the mention of his name. “M-me?! Do I have to?”

“They can’t improve if you do not tell them what needs to be improved. I assure you, no harm will come to you here, and if… certain people come to you afterwards about this, I will let Megatron know as he will not be happy about that.”

Breakdown was swiping along his cube faster than ever before as he stared at the ground. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “I don’t. I don’t like that everyone doesn’t listen to me. I know… I know I can be overtearing, but it makes it feel like you don’t care. I wish Dead End would stop teasing me. I wish Drag Strip would stop making me feel bad by acting better than me. I wish Wildrider would stop dragging us into messes, because it always makes things worse. And I wish M-Motormaster would stop hitting us.”

Wildrider just shrugged, making no indication about changing or not. Motormaster scoffed. Lectern said, “Excellent work, I know that was difficult for you. Wildrider, do you have anything to say?”

“Yeah! Well, okay. I won’t listen to Brake-Neck so often I guess.”

Eight pairs of optics turned to stare at him.

He waved a hand. “Y’know. Brake-Neck?”

“Ah yes, the alter-ego you had a while back,” Dead End nodded.

“Not that! Not no more. He’s this voice in my head and he’s always telling me to do stuff that you guys hate. Like right now he’s telling me to tackle Motormaster just to cause a scene in here. And I gotta admit that would be funny. But I won’t, okay?”

Motormaster growled, low and dangerous.

“And you, Dead End?”

 _“Fine,”_ Dead End moaned. He threw his head back up to look at the ceiling. “I solemnly swear I won’t be so depressing. I’ll _try_ not to snark Motormaster as much. And I’ll try to loosen up a little too.”

“Finally, Drag Strip.”

Drag Strip scowled himself, still staring at the wall. Just what the Primus was he meant to say? Might as well blurt out whatever he wants. “I don’t — you all — I _hate_ when no one takes me seriously and you all try to put me down.” It hurt his feelings.

He wasn’t going to admit that though, so he just said, “It annoys me. But _fine,_ I’ll _try_ not to put you down so much.”

Lectern nodded and shuffled some pads he’d been keeping on his desk. “Very good. Well then, you are all dismissed. I will be in contact with some of you regarding your therapies, and to check in on your progress. Do feel free to contact me if you have any questions.”

* * *

Motormaster wished he could’ve slammed the door behind him when he stepped into their common room. He couldn’t tell whether that was useful or a waste of time or not, but Megatron was surely expecting his own report on it as well as Lectern’s. He leant against the wall next to the TV and glared at everyone. “Right. Okay. Thoughts? Anyone think that was… helpful?”

Breakdown nodded; Dead End shrugged; Wildrider gave a thumbs up and Drag Strip said, “Well, _no!_ Except the last bit. It was good that you all had to listen to _me_ for once. But whatever.”

Motormaster sighed and nodded curtly. “I’ll let Lord Megatron know.” Then he jerked a thumb at Dead End’s room. “You. In. Now.”

Dead End stood up wearily and perhaps slightly off-kilter and headed in.

Motormaster sat on him with his knees and that alone hurt; suffocated him under the immense weight until he swore he could hear his rivets creaking and his plating was _definitely_ denting, but Motormaster was careful to only straddle him enough that it was a extremely uncomfortable but didn’t too much damage.

And then he put his dwarfing hands around Dead End’s neck and squeezed.

The pressure was already too much — there was no amp up, just straight to business. He shouldn’t disobey, but reflexively his hands came up to scrabble at fingers until he had the good sense to push them against the floor instead; clenching and unclenching as hard as he could; anything to take his focus off the _pressure,_ the energon cut off from his system; his brain module was probably going to explode; his voicebox cut off too and so it came out tinny and staticky with him instinctively muttering _stop_ and _help_ and _please_ and an extremely strangled version of _Motormaster._

And then everything went black.

He wasn’t under for long enough. It was probably mere kliks. The next moment, the hands were back around his neck and he was lightheadedly trying to twist his head away, to weakly worm his way out of it. The next time he woke up, he stared at Motormaster with blurry eyes and almost thought he was crying. His nonsense-mind then thought _I’m dreaming_ and he was out. The next time he woke up he distantly realised he was lubricating — not down his inlet, but under his panel, and his spike was straining. The next time he woke up was the last time and as he laid there trying to massage his pump into pushing more energon to his processor he realised dimly they’d opened anyway. He shut them once he could, once Motormaster had disappeared to retrieve the second half of his punishment.

As he looked around his room with near-confusion at where he was (but it was his room, wasn’t it? Yes. That’s where he was. He remembered now), he saw Motormaster return with a five-unit drum of some substance that didn’t smell of anything but salt, so it was probably seawater. On top of it was a funnel. He stared down at Dead End for a moment, at his side, while he felt around his throat with one hand and the creases in his armour with the other.

Motormaster yanked Dead End’s fuel cap off and stuffed the funnel in. Dead End was already gagging at the length of it inserted into his throat, but it was worse with the water poured heavily down it. He tried to choke at the liquid sloshing down his inlet and into his tanks — he already felt sick, he couldn’t synthesise that — his HUD threw up warnings amongst warnings: the _foreign substance detected_ filled out over the _lack of energon to processor_ , the _lack of energon to voicebox,_ the _fuel lines damaged._ Motormaster held the funnel down with one hand while Dead End resisted the maddening urge to yank it off. He coughed and half-digested energon welled up in the funnel.

The whole drum did go in, but it was pointless, because immediately Dead End rolled onto all falls anyway and purged it back up. The salt stung his throat; an abrasive. He had the absurd sense it was smoothing out the ridges in his inlet pipe. The water tasted of both nothing and disgusting. The energon was worse: sweet and bitter and salty all at once. Tears streamed down his visor in rivulets, mixing in with the foul mess on the floor.

And all the time, Motormaster just watched. Stared, even. He had an odd stance to him: feet slightly apart, hands loose, head down, a perfectly blank expression to his face, mouth slightly agape.

Dead End got the ever-faraway sense he wasn’t even angry.

Of course, he heaved and squeezed even after his tanks were empty and screaming for fuel. He should refuel immediately, or else his systems would begin failing again (and his main engine this time, not just his brain module), but he wasn’t sure if he could keep it down.

Until there was nothing. He shook on the floor. The liquid swam between his hands.

Until all of a sudden it didn’t.

He flailed, confused, until he realised Motormaster was lifting him into a bridal carry, and then the strangest thing happened, the sort of thing he’d never seen in a million years.

Motormaster buried his face into the space between his shoulder and his head.

He didn’t dare turn his head, unsure of what he’d find, so he just stared listlessly at the ceiling above him and went limp. He smelled terrible. He heard quiet, controlled venting into his audial.

Then a small voice — nothing more than a whisper. The kind of thing so tiny and frail there was no way it could’ve come from Motormaster.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t like being like this. I don’t like having to do this. To you. The others. I hate it. I hate myself.”

Dead End just stared ahead confused about what was happening.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on a 48 hour stunticon lockdown LOVE those little bastards!!! some notes
> 
> * i am psychotic. i didn't base wildrider delusions off my own (i don't think he's the type) but i obviously have more experience with my own delusions  
> * i don't suffer from paranoid delusions but breakdown clinging to his bc he feels he needs them is very relatable lol  
> * i actually got very sad writing the last scene. i know motormaster's canonically not really...like that? i do think he's a sadist. but i think he also hates feeling like a failure more than anything else and he had a messed up upbringing considering he was built at the end of the war when megatron was a lot shittier to his underlings  
> * yes he has a crush on dead end does dead end like him back well not yet :)


End file.
